gged urchin with an armful of hand-bills.

'Would you lose a leg for it, Hope?' he asked, bringing to bear upon
Hopeful a pair of crossed eyes, a full complement of white teeth, and a
face promiscuously spotted with its kindred dust.

'For the Banger?' replied Hopeful; 'guess I would. Both on 'em--an' a
head, too.'

'Well, here's a chance for you.' And he tossed him a hand-bill.

Hopeful laid aside his hammer and his work, and picked up the hand-bill;
and while he is reading it, let us briefly describe him. Hopeful is not
a beauty, and he knows it; and though some of the rustic wits call him
'Beaut,' he is well aware that they intend it for irony. His countenance
runs too much to nose--rude, amorphous nose at that--to be classic, and
is withal rugged in general outline and pimply in spots. His hair is
decidedly too dingy a red to be called, even by the utmost stretch of
courtesy, auburn; dry, coarse, and pertinaciously obstinate in its
resistance to the civilizing efforts of comb and brush. But there is a
great deal of big bone and muscle in him, and he may yet work out a
noble destiny. Let us see.

By the time he had spelled out the hand-bill, and found that
Lieutenant ---- was in town and wished to enlist recruits for
Company ----, ---- Regiment, it was nearly sunset; and he took off his
apron, washed his hands, looked at himself in the piece of looking-glass
that stuck in the window--a defiant look, that said that he was not
afraid of all that nose--took his hat down from its peg behind the door,
and in spite of the bristling resistance of his hair, crowded it down
over his head, and started for his supper. And as he walked he mused
aloud, as was his custom, addressing himself in the second person,
'Hopeful, what do you think of it? They want more soldiers, eh? Guess
them fights at Donelson and Pittsburg Lannen 'bout used up some o' them
ridgiments. By Jing!' (Hopeful had been piously brought up, and his
emphatic exclamations took a mild form.) 'Hopeful, 'xpect you'll have to
go an' stan' in some poor feller's shoes. 'Twon't do for them there
blasted Seceshers to be killin' off our boys, an' no one there to pay
'em back. It's time this here thing was busted! Hopeful, you an't
pretty, an' you an't smart; but you used to be a mighty nasty hand with
a shot-gun. Guess you'll have to try your hand on old Borey's
[Beauregard's] chaps; an' if you ever git a bead on one, he'll enter his
land mighty shortly. What do you